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It would be so easy.
The razor looks ancient. One of those you would find in an authentic barber shop of the 1920s. For some reason, Vox, despite not needing to shave at all, owns one like he would somehow be more of a man simply by having it. For some reason today it’s been left out on the sink.
Valentino stares at the piece of metal in his hand until the image begins to swim. He feels like his brain is pulsing behind his eyes. Stupid, fuckass useless brain. He could poke the razor through his eye socket and make it all stop.
Make everything go quiet again.
It would be so easy.
He doesn’t care about pain. Pain is an instrument, just like fear and love. He’s the conductor, he knows how to twist and play one of the most primal human senses to his advantage.
Nothing can hurt him if he’s the one in control. He wants to hurt. Pain is easier than thinking, an excuse to trick himself into forgetting what the issue was in the first place. He can’t even begin to count all the things his brain is taking issue with this time.
He feels like he’s losing it. That fickle hold on sanity that he struggles to grasp on good days. That he loses sight of all too quickly on bad days. He doesn’t remember when things were good. Was it last week? Last month? When was the last time he slept without nightmares?
He’s been putting on makeup to hide the bags under his eyes. The twitch in his brow, the ache in his head from sleeping too much and then not at all. He wants to go back to bed and pass out for a year. Even if it means reliving memories that he wanted to avoid at all cost.
And here he thought he should be in a better place now.
When was the last time he was awake without wanting to die? When did he start having these thoughts again?
They probably never stopped. He just did louder things to drown them out. And for a while, he was good at it. So good that he forgot how quickly it could all vanish.
He presses the flat edge of the razor to his left arm, watching how it dents the skin without cutting yet.
It would be so easy. It wouldn’t leave any scars. Well, not in the long run.
It would feel good. Center him in ways no breathing exercises could ever imitate. Breathing exercises aren’t meant to punish. He wants to be hurt. He deserves to hurt, deserves to bleed until all the bad thoughts have bled out with him. Maybe it will be quiet then.
Vox would get this look in his eyes that is both sad and disappointed. Velvette would be mad. He could wear sleeves but it would be suspicious. They’re supposed to go to the beach. No place to wear long sleeves.
Why do they even care? It’s not their fucking business if Valentino wants to mutilate himself just a little bit. It’s his body, so it’s his choice, for fucks sake.
He owns his own body.
He owns his body.
The razor clatters to the floor. He sinks against the cool bathroom wall and slides down. Hugs himself tight with all four of his arms, feels like he’s suffocating. He isn’t crying, he’s just-...
A sob spills over his lips.
God fuck it all.